


The Grand Cure

by Violsva



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Community: acd_holmesfest, First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man doesn’t like to think that his success is due to another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grand Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HisMightyShield](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://acd-holmesfest.livejournal.com/34981.html).

I’d wanted to be a policeman since I was a lad. My uncle, the one I was named for, would visit from London and tell me stories about criminals until mother said, “My Heavens, George, I’ll never get him to sleep tonight if you don’t stop.”

I slept very well, and dreamt of cuffing villains in alleyways.

My uncle was the one who recommended me to the Force ten years later. I did not realize until I arrived that I was shorter than everyone there, and not quite taken as fully qualified.

I had discreet heels put into a pair of boots at first, but they made it almost impossible to walk properly, and I felt a bit of an idiot in them. So I stood to my full, below-regulation height in a line of constables and prayed the other men would see my capability behind my privileged acceptance.

I took longer than most to be let in, though. I’d refused more help from my uncle after the first acceptance, and been left with my own skills. But I was damned if I’d fail, and damned if I’d let a criminal slip by me. So eventually – eventually! - I was promoted to Sergeant, and then quickly to Inspector.

Most of crime solving, whatever anyone else will tell you, is stubbornness. Hold onto the facts and the rest will come. You just have to keep asking people, keep looking, and be more patient than Job. If you think there isn’t enough evidence around, you just keep looking and something will turn up. And whatever anyone else will tell you, that got me through very well.

It was the summer of 1880 when I was assigned to the Farintosh case. It was the typical sort of matter of a missing tiara and a distressed lady and an utterly trustworthy maid and no possible way someone could have got into the hotel, which always turns out to have a dozen ways anyone could get in, mostly with the help of the servants. What I remember most about the case was that Mrs. Farintosh was entirely unhelpful, snapping at us whenever we asked her a single question about her ladies’ maid and doing her best to stop us interviewing her.

I nearly thought that she was in it with the maid, but there didn’t seem to be much reason for her to do it. She clearly thought the girl had done something, though, and was attached enough to want to protect her from the consequences of it.

I returned to the scene the next day and found that Mrs. Farintosh had gone to the length of hiring a private detective to muddy the waters. I don’t like such men, though I knew there were one or two who other inspectors swore by. But when suspects or victims hire them they’re usually looking to give their clients value for money by ‘discovering’ exactly what they’re told to see.

This one was stick-thin and beaky, and he gave me a disdainful glance up and down when I caught his eye. It was clear enough that he was drawing his own conclusions about me, as I was about him.

Back then, I didn’t know who he was, did I?

Not, come to think of it, that I’m not sometimes a bit put out to see him at one of my scenes now. He doesn’t try to be an easy man to like. But he has his redeeming qualities, at times.

*

Mrs. Arthur Farintosh approached me in July 1880, recommended by Reginald Musgrave. These networks never quite function as you would expect them to; they produce people one would not have believed would know each other, and the common factor, the reason they are still in touch, can be hard to find.

Mrs. Farintosh was very young, and explained her difficulties with a sort of wide-eyed innocence that was immensely frustrating. Her opal tiara had disappeared, and the police were inclined to blame her maid. It was because of that that she had come to me. I would have preferred to ignore the matter, but I was short on rent and mindful of the potential benefit of her recommendation.

Someday I would find a way to avoid the need to flatter such clients, but unless Scotland Yard could be prevailed upon to provide me with cases of interest that day would not be soon.

“The police think it was Jeanette,” she said, referring to her ladies’ maid. “They say she must have had something to do with it, that she could so easily have let someone in, but she can’t have, Mr. Holmes. I do know her, I’m not an idiot.”

But the content of her narration was solid enough, and she showed sufficient clarity of thought to be able to filter useful facts from the general mess of the events of the night. I received the basic information from her, along with far too many more protestations of the maid’s innocence, and then she took me to the hotel with an aristocrat’s assumption of authority. She was the sister of some minor nobleman, and that sufficed to get me past the constable on duty.

I glanced at the Inspector in charge in the room. Shorter than most policemen, slightly twisted foot – clearly in his position due to some relative or patron’s influence. Long enough in it, though, that he must be at least marginally competent, or else very charming. He didn’t look the latter.

“I have a few more questions for you, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Farintosh,” he said, and proceeded to go over everything I had already asked her.

“And your maid came with you at your marriage?”

“Yes. She has been my maid for years, she is only new to this household.”

“Yes, thank you, madam,” said Lestrade. “If I could question Miss Dubois again, alone?”

“If you feel it is necessary,” she said, frowning at him. “Jeanette?”

“Of course,” said the maid. She had no noticeable French accent, and a decidedly Irish appearance. But her name was more likely a sign of the requirements of fashion than any deception on her part.

“I’ll just use your dressing room, then,” said the Inspector.

He made to leave, and I followed quickly before he could object. Mrs. Farintosh said, “You can just as easily do it here.”

“Thank you, but I always do interviews alone. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Holmes,” he added, keeping the door shut as I and Miss Dubois approached.

“I brought him here for a reason,” said Mrs. Farintosh. This was why I preferred it when the police had called me in themselves, if I had to go to a scene personally.

Lestrade rolled his eyes and gestured me and Miss Dubois through the door.

I leaned against the wall and watched him. He was competent enough, though far too focused on pulling a confession out of the girl. Having seen her, I was inclined to agree with Mrs. Farintosh. She seemed to have no secrets, no guilt, no nerves, even, beyond what might be expected from being questioned at all. And it had become clear to me that Mrs. Farintosh’s defence of her had more to do with mutual affection than an attempt to hide something. Mutual loneliness, perhaps, I thought, even after her marriage.

“Only them and me, and Mr. Barnes the valet,” she said, regarding the keys to the safe.

“Why does Mr. Farintosh’s valet have a key?” I asked, to a frown from Mr. Lestrade.

She blinked at me. “I don’t know. I suppose because I’m new, so he’s still in charge of them when they’re at home.”

“Ah. Do go on, Inspector.”

“Hmm. Well, Miss Dubois, what’s your real name?”

She glared at him. “That’s it. Jane Dubois.”

“You aren’t French, though.”

“Nor are you.”

“Where are you from? Dublin?” I stopped myself from laughing – her accent, such as it was, was far from Dublin.

“Belfast. You asked me this yesterday.” Her lips were twisted. He’d managed to alienate her altogether.

“And do you still have family there?”

“No.”

“Well, you must have a friend or two here.”

“Not in London.”

“Miss Dubois, we can easily find this out, you know.”

“Then you’ll find out I was brought up proper. I’m not lying, and I didn’t steal anything.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “it would be useful to question the other servants?”

“There’s just the valet,” said Lestrade. “Miss Dubois, do you know any of the hotel servants?”

“Not to speak to,” she said.

“Is there only one that sees to your mistress’s rooms, or many?”

“Just the one woman, mostly. Raker’s her name, or something like that. There’s others for his rooms.”

“Do they come in the mornings?”

“Usually. But I’ve seen them around all the time.”

I opened my mouth; Lestrade glared at me and said, “That’ll be all for now, Miss Dubois.”

“Interview the valet,” I said as soon as she had left.

“I was intending to,” said Lestrade. “Not because of you, though. I’d have done far better without your interruptions. Why would the valet have anything to do with it? He’s been with Farintosh for years – he’s had all the opportunity he needed for theft, if he wanted it.”

“Under those circumstances he would immediately be blamed. In London, with a new servant, he would not, as you demonstrate.” I refrained from further comment with difficulty.

Lestrade frowned at me. I could see him working out the logic of it in his head, however, and it gave me something like hope.

“It’d work well for him,” he admitted grudgingly. “But there’s no reason to think that’s what he did.”

“Four people with the keys,” I reminded him. “Which of them is the most likely?”

“Her.” He jerked his thumb at the door.

“She’s an orphan with no close friends apart from her mistress and perhaps other servants. This position is more important to her than the money. Let the valet in here and take a good look at him – he’s far more likely to have a motive for it.”

“So you don’t know he has a motive.”

“I’ve never seen the man, I don’t know what he might steal for.”

“You can tell with a look, can you?” he sneered.

“Possibly. Do you mean to say you couldn’t?”

He glared at me properly then. It is infuriatingly common that men who call themselves inspectors have never bothered to learn to inspect. Surely what I had asked was entirely reasonable. One might not know, but the meeting would hopefully provide enough data to theorize upon. And an interview was far more than a glance.

But I needed the goodwill, I reminded myself. I took a breath. “Talk to him, then.”

“I will. And I’d be obliged if you’d keep your mouth shut, this time.”

I nodded sharply and kept any other response to myself.

An older man, stiff and proper like a perfect servant from an advice book. The intention of the livery is to eliminate all traces of personality, yet it invariably fails. Clean hands, clean suit, clean face – but not entirely clean shoes. And too little macassar in his hair, I saw as he sat down. Rationing it, then, and therefore short of money. The mud on his shoes was familiar, if I could only place it.

“Am I to be questioned again?” Barnes asked.

“Not questioned,” said Lestrade. “We just need some more information. Tell me about who you saw near your masters’ rooms while they were out.”

“No one, I believe.” He kept speaking, but after looking at his eyes and hands I decided he was lying and stopped listening.

“Horses,” I said, remembering where I had last seen the colour of the traces of mud on his shoes. Thank god for limited hours, or he would have cleaned them off. Barnes started.

“Care for a race, do you?” Lestrade asked casually. Not such a fool as he seemed, then.

“No,” said Barnes. “Daft habit.”

“Not at all?”

“No.” More hesitant this time.

“Well, there’s no harm in one, is there?”

“I suppose not.” Playing with his cuffs.

“’Course, men have lost fortunes on nags.” Barnes didn’t reply. “Know anyone like that?” Lestrade left pauses large enough for answers between his sentences, but didn’t get them. “Everyone knows someone. Horses, or cards, or dice. I had a friend, it was worse than drink for him -”

“For God’s sake!” shouted Barnes.

“Ah, there we are,” said Lestrade, quite as if it was his own idea. “Sold it yet?”

“I don’t know what you -”

“Thompson’s a good fence near the racetracks,” I said. “Discreet, too.”

Barnes called Thompson an unprintable name.

“That’s good enough,” said Lestrade, taking out a set of handcuffs.

“All right,” Lestrade said some short time later, after the lady and her husband had been told, “don’t think you’re going anywhere, Mr. Holmes. Got any clever ideas about where the opals are?”

The two of us started with Thompson, who had seen the man but, according to him, refused to take the tiara, and then went through all the fences either of us knew near the racetracks. Lestrade acquitted himself well, for a policeman, and by that evening we had a handful of loose stones and some formerly ornate wirework.

Though it had been an extremely simple matter, I was giddy with the quickness of it, and turned a little too fast off the pavement. The inspector grabbed my elbow and held me upright. I glared at him, though I admittedly might have staggered without his hold. He frowned back at me.

“Anyone at home waiting supper for you?” he asked. “You look like you need it.”

I would have snapped at him, but I stopped myself upon the thought that he had, after all, been instrumental in the case. “I’ll find a restaurant,” I said instead, for he was right. “Good night.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Holmes,” he said.

“My assistance? Oh yes, you are welcome to it.” On a sudden whim, I gave him my card, though he could have reached me easily enough through his colleagues.

*

The hospital was not designed to Miss Nightingale’s lines. The walls were whitewashed and everything seemed very clean, but there were few windows in the wards, and they were very far from my bed. Anything, however, was better than the transport from Kandahar had been. The nurses were generally practical and dour, and did not listen to a word I said about my injuries, which given my mental state was probably all to the good.

The primary difficulty for many patients, after the pain, is boredom, and I was no different. As an officer I might have had a private room if there was one to be had, but there wasn’t. During the day the company of other soldiers was something of a pleasure; we talked, and the men capable of walking and sitting at a table played cards.

During the night we all had nightmares at least once, and we were all in pain.

I was reasonably confident about my own abilities of recovery, though. The wound had been a clean one, and I had made it through the first fever. Just when lying motionless became truly intolerable, I grew well enough to force myself to a standing position, and then I thought I was reviving marvellously quickly, though I still spent most of my time in bed.

I would play bridge, and poker, and draughts with the other men, and anything else we could think of. The nurses, I think, pretended not to know about the penny-gambling that went on. I walked up and down the verandah as much as I could, though admittedly I spent most of my time there sitting. I told myself I was grateful for the bright hot sunlight, and did not miss England.

I had been there less than a month when someone got a hold of a London newspaper somehow, and we all passed it around, reading it until most of us had the thing memorized, riots, jewel thefts, advertisements, obituaries and all.

But interspersed with my interest in news from home was a fear of it as well, for I had no idea how long the wound would take to heal properly, or how well it would. And it had taken longer than I thought it should have by now, no matter how hard I tried to encourage myself. The fever of the immediate infection had left me weaker than I wanted to be. When would I be able to go back to my duties?

Would I go back to my duties?

I knew that if my weakness lasted much longer it would likely be permanent. But surely that would not be enough to lose my position, I told myself. Whatever would I do in England? A private practice held no appeal for me, not after I had seen India.

I suspected that we all felt it, never acknowledging the fear between the hands of cards and the shared cigarettes. Those of us who still had all our limbs could pretend we didn’t, but the same look was always there.

Then one of us came down with enteric fever.

I had not seen it in a clinical situation before. I barely saw it this time, for as soon as one had it we all did, and the nurses ran between the beds – or they seemed to be running, to me – with water and cloths, and could, to my perception, do nothing. The days became short again in delirium, and then long with pain and prostration, and the knowledge of my own uselessness.


End file.
